face was serious.

"What's the main idea?" asked Harrigan.

The bos'n cast a worried eye fore and aft.

"Black McTee's breakin' you," he said; "you're getting the whip."

"Well?"

"God help you, that's all. Now get below."

There was a certain fervency about this speech which impressed even
Harrigan. He brooded over it on his way to the fireroom. There he was
set to work passing coal. He had to stand in a narrow passage scarcely
wide enough for him to turn about in. On either side was a towering
black heap which slanted down to his feet. Midway between the piles was
the little door through which he shoveled the coal into the fireroom.

All was stifling hot, with a breath of coal dust and smoke to choke the
lungs. Even the Greek firemen sweated and cursed, though they were used
to that environment. An ordinary man might have succumbed simply to
that fiery, foul atmosphere. It was like a glimpse of hell, dark,
hopeless.

It was not the heat or the atmosphere which troubled Harrigan, but his
hands. His skin was puffed and soft from the scrubbing of the bridge.
Now as he grasped the rough wood of the short-handled scoop the
epidermis wore quickly and left his palms half raw. For a time he
managed to shift his grip, bringing new portions of his hands to bear